Feast of Fools

The female vampire strolled over and dipped her finger in the gravy Shane was stirring, then lifted the finger slowly to her lips to suck it clean. She stared at Shane the whole time. And Shane, Claire realized with a helpless, unpleasant shock, stared right back.

“We’ll sit for the meal now,” Bishop said to Michael. “You will have the pleasure of serving us, Michael. And if your little friends decide to try to poison me, I’ll have your guts out, and believe me, a vampire can suffer a very, very long time when I want him to.”

Michael swallowed and nodded once. Claire sent an involuntary look toward her folks, who could not possibly have missed that.

And they hadn’t. “Excuse me?” Claire’s father asked, and began to rise out of his chair. “Are you threatening these kids?”

Bishop turned those cold eyes toward them, and Claire desperately thought about whether a hot iron skillet with a panful of frying eggs might be a useful weapon against a vampire. Her dad froze, halfway up.

She felt a wave of something go through the room, and her parents’ eyes went blank and vague. Her dad sank down again heavily in his chair.

“No more questions,” Bishop said to them. “I tire of your chatter.”

Claire felt a surge of utter black fury. She wanted to leap on that evil old man and claw his eyes out. The only thing holding her back, in those two long seconds, was the fact that if she tried, they’d all end up dead.

Even Michael.

“Coffee?” Eve broke the silence with a desperate, brittle brightness in her tone. She grabbed the coffeepot from Michael and bore down on Claire’s mom and dad like the avenging dark angel of caffeine. Claire wondered what her parents made of Eve, with her rice-powder makeup and black lipstick and raccoon eyeliner, and her dyed-black hair teased into fierce spikes.

Then again, she had coffee, and she was smiling.

“Sure,” Claire’s mom said, and tried a tentative smile in return. “Thank you, dear. So—did you say that man is a relative of yours?” She cast a look toward Bishop, who was exiting the kitchen and heading for the dining table in the living area. The handsome younger male vamp caught Claire’s look and winked, and she hastily focused back on Eve and her parents.

“Nope,” Eve said, with fear-fueled cheer. “Distant relative of Michael’s. From Europe, you know. Cream?”

“Eggs are done,” Claire said, and turned down the burner. “Eve—”

“I hope we have enough plates,” Eve interrupted, more than a little frantic. “Jeez, I never thought I’d say this, but where’s the good china? Is there good china?”

“Meaning plates without chips in the edges? Yeah. Over there.” Shane pointed to a cabinet about four feet higher than Eve’s head. She gave him a stare. “Don’t look at me—I’m not reaching for it. Still wounded, you know.” He was. Claire had forgotten that, too, in the press of all the other stuff—he was doing better, but he’d been out of the hospital only a short while. Hardly enough time to really heal up from the stab wound that had nearly killed him.

That was another good reason not to make waves unless they absolutely had to—without Shane, their ability to fight back was seriously compromised.

Eve climbed up on the counter, found the plates, and handed them down to Claire. Once that was done, Claire took Shane’s place at the stove, stirring the lumpy stuff that was supposed to be gravy. It looked like something an alien would barf.

“That girl,” Claire said to Shane.

“What girl?”

“The—you know. Out there.”

“You mean the bloodsucker? Yeah, what about her?”

“She was staring at you.”

“What can I say? Irresistible.”

“Shane, it’s not fu

“Always am.” Which was an absolute lie. Shane’s eyes fixed on hers, and she felt a burst of heat inside that crept up to burn in her cheeks. He smiled slowly. “Jealous?”

“Maybe.”

“No reason. I like my ladies with a pulse.” He took her hand and pressed his fingers gently against her wrist. “Yep, you’ve got one. It’s beating pretty fast, too.”

“I’m not kidding, Shane.”

“Neither am I.” He stepped closer, and they were barely a breath apart. “No vamp’s going to come between us. You believe me?”

She nodded wordlessly. For the life of her, she couldn’t have forced out a single word just then. His eyes were dark, the color of rich brown velvet, with a thin rim of gold. She’d looked into his eyes a lot recently, but she’d never noticed just how beautiful they were.

Shane stepped back as the door opened again. Michael turned first toward them, offering up a mute apology, then faced Claire’s parents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Danvers, Mr. Bishop would like for you to join him for di

If Michael was hoping they’d changed their minds, Claire could have told him that wasn’t going to happen. As long as her dad had the idea something fu

Clueless, Claire thought in despair, but then again, she’d been just as bad when she’d first come to Morganville. She hadn’t taken the strong hints, or even the outright instructions, seriously. Maybe she’d gotten that from her parents, along with the fair skin and slightly curly hair. In their defense, though, Mr. Bishop was playing with their heads.

And they were scared for her.

She watched as her parents followed Michael into the other room, and then helped Eve get the eggs and bacon and biscuits onto serving dishes—nice ones at that. The lumpy gravy couldn’t be helped. They poured it into a gravy bowl and hoped for the best, then silently carried it out into the dining area, which was really a corner of the living room.

Claire was struck again, as she was at the oddest times, how the mood of the house could change at a moment’s notice. Not just the mood of the people in it—the house itself. Right now, it felt dark, cold, foreboding. Almost hostile. And yet all that dark emotion seemed directed at the intruding vampires.

The house was worried, and on guard. The solid Victorian furniture crouched hunched and deformed, nothing warm or welcoming about it. Even the lights seemed dimmed, and Claire could feel something, almost a presence—the way she’d been able to sometimes sense Michael when he’d been trapped in the house as a ghost. The fine hair on her arms stood on end, and her skin pebbled into gooseflesh.

Claire set the eggs and bacon down on the wooden table and backed away. Nobody had asked her, Eve, and Shane to take seats, although there were empty places at the table; she caught Eve’s eye and retreated back to the kitchen, grateful to escape. Michael stayed by the table, putting food on plates. Serving. There was a tight, pale set to his face and a cold fear in his eyes, and God, if Michael was panicking, there was definitely reason for a total freak-out.

As soon as the kitchen door closed again, Shane grabbed her and Eve and hustled them to the farthest corner of the room. “Right,” he whispered. “It’s official—this is getting way more than creepy. Did you feel that?”

“Yeah,” Eve breathed. “Wow. I think if the house had teeth, it’d be chomping down right now. You have to admit, that’s cool.”

“Cool isn’t getting us anywhere. Claire?”

“What?” She stared at him blankly for a few long seconds, then said, “Oh. Right. Yeah. I’ll call Amelie again.” She dug the cell phone out of her pocket. It was new, and came with a few important numbers preloaded on it. One of them—the first on speed dial, in fact—was a contact number for Amelie, the Founder of Morganville.

The head vampire. Claire’s boss, sort of. In Morganville, the technical term was Patron, but Claire had known from the begi